The Minotauress

'You, too? Shee-it,' Balls smirked. 'I don't give a rat's dick 'bout a bunch'a paintings'n statue heads. Let's git ta work, and you—' He reached down toward Cora. 'Git off yer ass and help.'

Cora lay dazed and bloody-mouthed at the foot of the fireplace. She kind of flopped there with her hands behind her back, but then Balls grabbed one of her tit-flaps through her halter and, using it as a handle of sorts, lifted her to her feet.

Cora squealed again.

'Guess we should check the rest'a this floor, then look upstairs.'

'And out back, too, I'd advise,' the Writer said, peeking out a heavily draped window. 'Looks like a garage in the back property and, well, naturally a creepy-looking graveyard.'

'A... graveyard?' Dicky muttered.

Balls' glare seemed to even take the scowling portraits aback. 'I don't care 'bout no graveyards or no creepy houses. All's I want is a nice paycheck fer a night's work. Dicky—you and the Writer go check outside—' The girl mewled when Balls pinched her nipple and twisted hard. 'I'll keep an eye on this stringbean with a pussy, and check the rest'a down here.'

Cora opened her mouth to object, then thought better of it. 'Come on, Writer,' Dicky said and shoved the Writer toward the back door.

They both stepped out into the night. The moon was so bright they scarcely needed their flashlights. Now's my chance, the Writer realized. I can brain this ignoramus with my flashlight and head for the hills, but then he laughed to himself. Who am I kidding? I'm a writer. Writers don't have balls like that...

'So's yer a writer, huh? What'cha write? Like, books'n shit?'

The Writer gave his stock answer. 'I'm a speculative novelist. I infuse relatable modern fiction scenarios with charactorial demonstrations of the existential condition. Allegorical symbology, it's called, rooted in various philosophical systems.'

Dicky nodded with approval. 'That's what I thunk. I read a book once, see? They made us in school. It was kind'a dumb though. A retard watchin' golf balls or some shit.'

The Writer nearly howled. Absalom, Absalom!

They wended through tilted gravestones, some with crudely etched dates going back to the late 1700s. Toward the rear of the yard, near the treeline, a newer building, like a garage, grew larger.

'Maybe Crafter's got a bunch'a fancy cars in that there garage,' Dicky speculated.

'Perhaps. But what do you know about this man Crafter?'

'Nothin'. Just that he's some old weirdo who's got a house full'a ‘spensive junk.'

'I wouldn't call him merely an old weirdo.' The Writer looked at Dicky. 'He's an old weirdo who also happens to be a student of the black arts.'

Dicky remained silent. When an owl hooted, he flinched. The garage was unlocked. They both went in, flashlights beaming. No cars were in evidence, but there was a riding lawn mower, various tools, and a dozen tanks of liquid propane. 'Check that barrel there,' Dicky ordered in a feeble attempt at authority. 'Might be full'a gold or jewels.'

Greedy of filthy lucre, the Writer quoted the first letter of Timothy. He pried off the barrel's lid and found it curiously full of—

'No gold or jewels, Mr. Dicky. Just... salt.'

'Salt? The hail?'

'Not table salt, either.' The Writer tasted it. 'Uniodized. It doesn't snow this far south, does it?'

'Naw. Why's the old coot gotta a barrel full'a salt?

'I couldn't guess. And that's quite a load of propane. I didn't see a grill out back anywhere.'

Next the Writer looked in a metal can.

'What'cha got there? Jewels?'

The Writer shook his head. 'Try dead frogs.'

Dicky looked in. 'Yer shittin' me!'

The can was full of petrified bullfrogs. The Writer noted an even odder anomaly. 'It looks like all of their toes have been cut off. Then they were just tossed in here to die.'

'Shee-it... '

Another can was full of desiccated newts, all missing their eyes. 'Eye of newt, toe of frog,' the Writer's voice echoed in the dark.

'This is right fucked up. We'se leavin'.'

Back outside the Writer combed his light behind them. 'Let's go look at those graves.'

'The fuck for?'

'I detect an incongruence.'

'Huh?'

The Writer smiled and walked over. 'How curious... '

'A half-dug hole? Big deal.'

Indeed, there were several areas in their proximity that had been dug down to about a foot, trenches, in a sense, about six feet long.

'What's that on the ground? Cement?'

'Crude cement. It's called tabby,' the Writer explained. 'You know what this place is, Mr. Dicky? It's an unconsecrated graveyard.'

'Shee-it... '